


Where My Demons Hide

by SilentAuror



Series: Demons [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fix-it fic, M/M, POV: John Watson, References to Addiction, References to Suicide, Romance, Series 4, Therapy, making amends, references to violence, set at the end of The Lying Detective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 19:21:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9286244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentAuror/pseuds/SilentAuror
Summary: Set toward the end ofThe Lying Detective. With Ella's help, John decides to start actively pursuing what he wants in spite of the demons standing in his way.





	

**Where My Demons Hide**

 

“When were you the happiest?” 

John tunes back in with a slight start. His thoughts wandered again there, whoops. “Sorry, what?” 

Ella’s face is as patient as ever. He went back to her, of course. She was the only one who could ever seem to get anywhere in this dense, black maze of knotted thoughts. He called the day after Sherlock’s birthday and she offered him a spot for the very next morning. “When were you the happiest?” she repeats, not minding the repetition. It’s hardly been the first time. 

He feels a flat smile, the terse, sarcastic one, steamroller his features for a second. “When?” It comes out as sarcastically as the smile did. 

Ella shrugs. “At any point. It doesn’t have to be one sole day or period of time. What comes into your head?” 

John thinks for a moment, but comes up blank and shakes his head. “Nope. I don’t know. Ask me something else, please.” 

Ella doesn’t sigh. Instead, she leans back and crosses her legs the other way and glances down at her notebook. “May I make an observation?” 

John shrugs elaborately. “Be my guest. I’m bloody well used to it by now.” 

That gets a very slight smile, but there’s a small line between her eyes and she doesn’t change course. “You’re very preoccupied with the concept of guilt,” she says, her tone as gently devoid of inflection as ever. “What is or isn’t your fault, and who else may or may not be responsible. Can we talk about that? Where does this come from, do you think? Why is it such a strong concept for you?” 

John shakes his head. “I’ve never thought about that. Have you really observed it as such a… thing?” 

Ella nods. “I’ve noticed a bit of a pattern in terms of misplaced guilt, both for yourself and others. Was fault a strong theme in your childhood? Were your parents quite strict?” 

She knows about his background, knows where his parents are now – at least as far as he himself knows. John thinks about it. “I suppose they were, yeah. Mum especially always wanted to know who was behind whatever had or hadn’t happened. Who left the jam out, who didn’t shut the window, all that.”

“Did that behaviour intensify when your sister came out?” Ella asks. 

He shrugs again. She and Sherlock have both told him over the years that this is a sign of defensiveness, but he can’t help it. “Yeah, I guess you could say that,” he says. It’s a bit of an understatement. “Dad was already gone by then. Mum didn’t take it well. Kept wanting to know where Harry got the idea from.” 

“Right – so that she could lay the appropriate blame,” Ella says, cottoning on. “Do you see, John?” 

He leans forward in lieu of acknowledging this. “So you’re saying that I blame the wrong people? Is that it? I know I was wrong to blame Sherlock over Mary’s death. I’ve actually got that far on my own already.” 

That gets a lift of her brows. “Have you? Well done, John. Have you told him that you know it wasn’t his fault?” 

John nods. “I did, yeah. Two days ago. It was his birthday.” 

“Was it?” Ella writes something down. John spares a thought to wonder why she’s taking note of this, but decides not to ask. “Do you think he blamed himself?” she asks, still looking at the notebook. 

John struggles internally for the answer here. “Yes,” he says at last, and the word hurts to utter. “Not that I think I should be held responsible for his – utter breakdown there, but – yes. I suppose he did blame himself. I suppose I helped him do that.” 

“He’s an addict,” Ella reminds him, her tone as gentle as ever. Not blaming, just reminding. “Of course the drugs aren’t your fault. But one does need to be… careful… with an addict.” She studies him for a moment, then uncrosses her legs and reaches for her water, taking a sip. “What else do you think you may have blamed yourself for that you can see now may have been out of place?” 

John thinks for a long time about this, his chin resting on his hand. He looks across the office to the painting of a church on a hill in the Mediterranean somewhere. A church within a church. He thinks absently of modern medicine and how, in many ways, it’s replaced religion. (Perhaps he should think about going back to church. Then again, perhaps not.) “When Mary shot Sherlock,” he says slowly, the words drawing themselves out of his mouth with difficulty. He’s only just recently been able to bring himself to tell Ella about that, feeling that doing so was an insult to Mary’s memory somehow. Yet another betrayal. “I thought people were blaming me for it. Sherlock said that I chose Mary because she was a dangerous person, like him. I thought he was blaming me for it. Maybe I was the only one doing that.” 

Ella is still for a long time. When he glances over for her response, she nods. “Good, John,” she says quietly. “What else wasn’t your fault?” 

“Mary jumping in front of that bullet,” John says heavily. He knows she’s angling for this. “Her death in general.” 

“Your text message affair had nothing to do with that,” Ella reminds him. “Nor did the feelings you mentioned last time of not loving her enough. That’s not why she died.” 

“But I have to have something!” The words startle John as much as they do Ella, and for a moment they just stare at one another in surprise. 

Ella recovers first. “What do you mean by that?” 

He struggles again. “I just mean – I’m not perfect, I’m so bloody far from perfect – I need something to – to work on, to work over. There must be something I’m responsible for and not doing enough about.” 

It doesn’t make any sense once it’s said aloud, but Ella doesn’t challenge him on that, specifically. “Must there be?” she asks. “Do you really think so, or is this you trying to attach some underlying guilt to something specific, to give it a name?” 

“No – it’s not that,” John says, feeling fairly sure about this. “I feel like I’m so far outside the loop that I don’t even know what I’ve all missed, what I may have been responsible for.” 

Ella turns back in her notes and scans, flips another page or two. “Do you think this has something to do with Sherlock?” she asks. 

John hesitates. “What do you mean?” 

Her lips compress ever so slightly. “He was recently hospitalised,” she begins. “Half a year ago, he was shot. Not your fault, you said. Before that, I know he was away on some sort of secret mission, for which he faked his own suicide in front of you. Obviously that wasn’t your fault, either, but these are all large events. It would be understandable if you had some remnant feelings associated with any of them. Do you feel guilty in some way for any of these things? It doesn’t matter if it’s justified or otherwise.” 

John looks down at his lap. “I don’t know,” he says softly. His throat feels tight. “All of it, sometimes.”

Ella studies him kindly. “That’s a large bundle right there. Perhaps we’ll start there next time. Can we go back to my earlier question? I’d just like you to answer off the top of your head, stream of consciousness style: when were you the happiest? Close your eyes and just say whatever first comes to mind. Don’t stop if more comes to you.” 

John leans back in his chair and closes his eyes. “Living at Baker Street,” he says. Ella says nothing, so he keeps going. “Brighton Beach with Charlie’s family when I was ten. Getting chocolates from my Gran at Christmas.” 

He stops there, and Ella prompts him. “And more recently? It can be any small thing, too. When, recently, were you the happiest? What felt the best?” 

“Rosie laughing,” John says, his eyes still closed. “The other day when I picked her up and she laughed… Sherlock, the other day. His hand on my neck.” 

“On your neck?” Ella repeats, probing for clarification. 

“He was… holding me,” John says, glad that his eyes are closed. “I was crying. About Mary. He got up and came over and put his arms around me. It’s… the best thing I’ve felt in a long time.” He opens his eyes. “And I feel guilty about that, too.” 

Ella’s eyes are already on his. “Why is that, do you think?” she asks. “Why should you feel guilty about receiving comfort from a friend after your wife has died? That’s innocent enough.” 

“Because I wanted it to be more,” John says, then firmly clamps his mouth shut. He looks down at the floor between his knees, shaking his head. He always ends up opening up too much by the end of the hour. 

“Go on,” Ella says, her voice very gentle. 

He shouldn’t, but perhaps confession _is_ good for the soul. (Perhaps this isn’t so different from church, after all.) “I wanted more,” he repeats, his voice barely audible. “I wanted it from the woman on the bus, and now I want it from Sherlock. Always have done, if you want to know.” He keeps his eyes on the floor for a long time, waiting for Ella to say something about this. When she doesn’t, he drags his gaze up to hers, looking for judgement or recrimination. 

There isn’t any. (He should have known better. Ella never judges.) “Are you in love with him?” she asks quietly. 

John looks away. Nods. “I don’t deserve him,” he says, his voice cracking into a whisper. 

“How so?” Ella does challenge this, even though they must be nearly out of time. 

John pushes his knuckles into his teeth, his breathing suddenly high and panicky. “There are – there’s something I did the other week, when he was high. When he was hospitalised. We were already there in the hospital, with Culverton Smith. He – he was out of control and I was trying to reign him in, and I – it went way too far. He was high. Dying, our friend Molly said, and I – ” He has to stop; he can’t say it. 

“Did you hit him?” Ella asks, the question still managing to come out even and calm. 

John nods and feels his eyes glaze over with saline, stinging his eyes. He blinks but it’s too late; it spills over and slips down his cheeks. “I hurt him,” he says, the words sticking in his throat. 

“So this is where that guilt is coming from,” Ella says quietly. “Do you think that he’s angry about it?” 

John shakes his head. “No. But he should be. He said at the time that I had every right, because he’d killed my wife, and I agreed and said he had. And then I left him there. I was going to turn my back on him and walk out of his life.” 

He’s miserable, admitting this. Ella, to her credit, does not check the time. Perhaps she doesn’t have anyone after him today. “And you feel guilty because Sherlock isn’t taking you to task for this, and you feel that he should,” she says, hypothesising. 

John rubs angrily at his eyes. “I’m not good for him. He keeps saying that I’m the best person he knows and crap like that, but he keeps just about dying on my account, or because my wife shot him – ”

“ – not your fault,” Ella inserts swiftly, reminding him. 

“ – and I keep going on benefiting from it and treating him so poorly, sometimes,” John finishes, ignoring her. “I don’t deserve him. It’s a fact.” He fixes his eyes on her at this and glares, defying her to get him to try to back down. 

She doesn’t. “Relationships have very little to do with what a person ‘deserves’,” she says mildly. “Whether that relationship is a friendship or something else. What child deserves what her parents do for her? What patient deserves all the care and effort a doctor or nurse spends on him? Some relationships are designed to work in a particular balance, and most others are flawed in some way. You yourself do not need to be perfect to deserve the love of your friend, regardless of what sort of love that is. Whether we’re talking about the brotherly affection of two very good friends, or romantic love – no relationship is perfect, John. All that matters is what you both want.” 

John absorbs all of this without looking at her. Eventually he says, to the floor, “I don’t know what he wants.” It sounds surly. 

“That’s what communication was invented for,” Ella reminds him, and he can hear in her tone that she’s smiling now. She shifts her weight. “I’m afraid we’re out of time for today. If you’d like to talk again this week, I’ve got time on Friday at lunch, if lunchtimes are still preferable for you…” 

John nods. “Yeah. All right. I’ll take it, if I may.” 

“It’s yours.” Ella stands, so he follows suit. She extends her hand and waits for him to take it. “Go easy on yourself,” she says. “You’ve been through some difficult times lately.”

John nods. “I’ll try,” he says gruffly, then turns and makes for the door. 

*** 

It’s dark in the flat, so he turns a lamp on. Molly’s got Rosie, so there’s no one else there. He putters about, collecting newspapers where he’s left them lying around, taking a mug to the kitchen. It’s so quiet. He thinks about turning on the telly just for a bit of background noise, but doesn’t do it. He thinks about starting supper, but goes instead to sit down in one of the chairs. He doesn’t have a favourite chair here, like at Baker Street. 

Like at home, he almost thought. He thinks about what he said to Ella, about having been the happiest at Baker Street. It’s true. There have been other happy moments, bits and pieces here and there. Uni days, sometimes. Even Afghanistan, at times. But none so consistently as at Baker Street. 

He lets himself think of Sherlock for a moment, which is always dangerous, treacherous ground. Always a chance he could slip, let himself go too far. He’s been down that slope before. He closes his eyes and feels Sherlock’s arms around him again and for a moment, all he can do is revel in it. The warmth of those long fingers wrapping themselves gently around the back of his neck, squeezing around his arm. Even not having showered in days, Sherlock smelled good. He smelled like himself, a unique scent that John’s privately been addicted to for years. He hadn’t meant to say that, about Sherlock. About wanting more, but he does. He always has. 

Despite the lamp, the darkness deepens and the demons beckon, whispering temptations. Whiskey: that’s an obvious one; his hand is already itching for a drink. It’s only the caution of both Harry and Mum that have held him back from tumbling irrevocably over that brink. Then there are the darker voices that whisper about his lack of worth, about how everything is his fault, about not being good enough for anyone or anything. He’s a failure as a father; he’s proved that already. He doesn’t deserve his best friend. He doesn’t deserve the people who are taking care of Rosie. He doesn’t – 

“Enough,” John snarls aloud, and for a moment it silences the demons. The whispers disappear into what he imagines is a contemplative silence as they gather their strength for a renewed attack, a different angle. 

He gets up and takes himself into the kitchen and makes himself cook something. Ella told him that cooking is therapeutic. It gives him something to do, and creating things is always positive. It will mean not feeling regret over having ordered in again, eating badly and spending money he doesn’t really have. He thinks briefly of all the money Mary must have earned in her line of work and wonders where it went, why she never mentioned it. Why no one’s come forward and offered it to him since she’s dead. (Stop, John tells the demons firmly.) He makes rice and bakes a piece of frozen tilapia that was in the freezer and makes a simple green salad to go on the side. 

His phone buzzes. It’s Sherlock; he can feel it instinctively. (Or maybe he’s just hoping.) It is, though, and his heart lifts a little. 

_Was thinking about cooking or maybe_  
_ordering in. Come and keep me company?_

John feels a pang of regret. He types back: _I just made dinner, sorry. Something really dull. Tomorrow?_

He presses send and waits a moment, then sees Sherlock typing a response. _Tomorrow’s fine. Come when you want._

John smiles. _Will do._ He thinks, then adds, _What are you cooking? I made tilapia with rice. Boring._

 _But healthy,_ Sherlock responds. _You’ve inspired me. There’s salmon in the freezer. I suppose I’ll do something with that._

 _Could try soy and maple syrup like you did that one time?_ John suggests back. _That turned out well._

_Good idea. Don’t let me keep you from your dinner. Bon appétit._

_Thanks,_ John types back. _Same to you._

*** 

“What do you want the most right now?” Ella asks, her pen tapping lightly against her knee. 

They’re forty minutes in and John is relaxed this time, and the answer comes readily. “I want to kiss Sherlock. I want him to touch me.”

“How would you like him to touch you?” The question is neutral, just an inquiry. 

“Intimately,” John says, his eyes closed, shutting off his own judgement for once and just answering. “I want him to touch me everywhere, and I want to touch him. I want to have sex with him.”

“Is there a way that you can possibly bring this about?” Ella asks. “Have you told him how you feel yet?” 

“No,” John says. He opens his eyes and looks up at the ceiling. “But I might. Yeah. I might. If the right moment comes up. I’m having dinner with him tonight.”

“Good. Have you thought about how to build up to the moment?” Ella inquires. “What to say to potentially create the right moment? Remember, John, this is about owning your own agency. We want to get to a point of creating the situations we want to live, rather than waiting for them to happen and reacting to them. It’s time to start being proactive about what you want.” 

John lets his breath expel in a long stream. “True, but I’m not really sure how to actually do that. How to bring it up. I mean, Sherlock isn’t that good at talking most of the time.” 

“I think he may be better than you give him credit for,” Ella says simply, but doesn’t offer an explanation for it. “Do you think he may be open to the idea of allowing your friendship to deepen into a romance?” 

John shakes his head. “I honestly don’t know. I’ve been thinking about it a lot more since Tuesday. He’s never had a relationship like that, you know. Not with anyone. Sometimes I think that if there was one person he’d ever try it with, it might be me. Then I think that the entire notion is totally foreign to him and he wouldn’t have the first clue what to do in a relationship like that, and he might think I’m utterly ridiculous for wanting to give it a try. I don’t know.” 

“So how can you explore the topic a little further?” Ella probes. 

“Believe me, I’ve tried,” John says fervently. “There’s a woman he texts sometimes, a criminal, but I always thought he fancied her.” 

Ella cocks her left ear toward him in gentle puzzlement. “Do you think he’s bisexual, then, if you think there’s the possibility that he may be interested in you as well as this woman?” 

This stumps him for a moment, because truthfully, he’s always thought that Sherlock was either gay or asexual. Asexual definitely fit better when Sherlock used to pretend he wasn’t even human, but these days Sherlock is almost more human than regular people are. Gay, then. “I don’t know,” he admits. “He did once say that women weren’t really his area.” 

Ella’s eyebrows lift at this. “That sounds pretty clear to me,” she points out. “So why fixate on this woman? It’s not the first time you’ve mentioned her.” 

“Isn’t it?” John is a bit startled. “Oh. Er. I hadn’t realised.” 

Ella smiles. “It’s okay to get jealous,” she reminds him. “As long as you deal with it in a healthy manner. So: you’ve been probing into Sherlock’s sexuality by making references to a woman that you’re now somewhat certain he’s not physically attracted to by dint of his sexual orientation.” 

John feels his face heat a little. “Right,” he says. “I see what you’re getting at.” He looks down at his hands. “I’m, er, not very good with jealousy,” he says. 

“That’s a good admission,” Ella says calmly. “That’s the first time I’ve heard you say that. Why do you suppose you get so jealous about the people you love?” 

He picks at a cuticle and sniffs, stalling for time. “I suppose I don’t, er, don’t feel… like I’m worthwhile. Like I’m not that good, so it’d be easy for them to want someone else. I feel like I’m never worthy of them.” 

“A feeling you may now be connecting to Mary and your guilt over the text affair,” Ella reminds him. “Remember that her death has nothing to do with your worth. But speaking more generally, why wouldn’t you be worthy, John? Where does this insecurity come from, do you think?” 

“Because nothing ever works out,” John says. It comes out more harshly than he intended, almost a snarl. He looks up and meets her gaze, his own hard. “Nothing ever works out for me,” he repeats. “Nothing.” 

“Most romantic relationships come to an end at some point, except for those extremely rare, very precious ones that last our whole lives,” Ella says gently. “And lots of people never find one of those. Are you thinking of certain friends? Or your father?”

“I know we’ve already talked about that, but yes, a bit,” John says shortly. “It’s not just him. It’s my Mum off in wherever she lives now, and Harry. I mean, we talk sometimes, but we’re not close. For all I roll my eyes at Sherlock and his brother, they’re far closer than Harry and me. And my friends. They all seem to drift away. I’m rubbish at keeping in touch.” 

“You could change that,” Ella reminds him. “Owning your own agency, right?” 

“Right,” John agrees reluctantly. “I guess. Yeah.”

She recrosses her legs the other way. She isn’t taking notes today, he notices. “And then there’s Sherlock,” she points out. “He left you behind. That must feel like a confirmation of your private theory that you’re not worth staying around for.” 

John nods. “He was saving my life, though. I know that now. Mary left me, too. She was saving _her_ life. Maybe mine, too. I don’t know. I don’t know anymore.” 

“Hmm.” Ella tips her head to one side. “Is part of this related to feeling as though you don’t know the people you’re closest to as well as you thought you did? Do you think there’s anything to that? I’m just exploring this with you.” 

John feels his mouth drop open a little. “That’s it, actually,” he says, a bit stunned. “That’s exactly it.” 

Ella smiles serenely. “Then we’re getting somewhere. What could you do to change that? Say tonight, with Sherlock? It may be too late to uncover more of Mary’s secrets, but it’s not too late with Sherlock. You still have time there.” 

John hears the echo of his own words to Sherlock in his head. “You’re right,” he says, and it feels somehow as though a long-closed door has just opened. “You’re absolutely right.” 

*** 

Sherlock pours two glasses of a thick, richly-dark shiraz. “I thought it would go well with the beef,” he says, in reference to the sesame beef John ordered. “Plus I always like red with Chinese.” 

“Me too,” John agrees. “Just the one bottle tonight, though. For me, I mean. You drink as much as you want, but two and a half glasses is my limit tonight. Would you… make sure that I keep to that?” 

Sherlock glances at him quickly, then nods. “Of course,” he says swiftly. He sits down. “Similarly, I would prefer not to smoke tonight. Or – anything else. Would you keep an eye on me?” 

“You’re far more devious than I am, but I’ll try,” John says, wishing after the fact that it had come out less dubiously. He realises belatedly that Sherlock is sober and that he probably only said that to make it feel even. Or maybe it was a genuine request. “Did you have a good time with Greg today?”

Sherlock gives him an odd smile, as though he followed John’s train of thought precisely. “I did, actually. Though I’m glad that was the last of these shifts. I’m clean, I promise you.” 

John looks across the table into Sherlock’s eyes for a long moment. “I believe you,” he says quietly, and confirms it in his gut a bit after that. He does believe Sherlock. Maybe he shouldn’t, but somehow he still does. His eyes are clear and very blue. He’s showered and clean-shaven and smells faintly like his expensive cologne. He looks nice – more than nice, John amends. He looks amazing. Sharply-dressed in a burgundy shirt and bespoke black trousers and almost painfully handsome. He swallows and takes a sip of his wine to hide his sudden wave of nerves. (Is he really going to do this? Try for this? Will he know the right moment when it comes?) Suddenly he knows what he has to say – first, before there can be any question of taking anything else any further. “Sherlock,” he says, and it comes out sharply, which he didn’t intend. “There’s something I have to say. Last week, in the hospital – ”

Sherlock shakes his head minutely. “Stop,” he says, very quietly. “It’s all right, John.” 

“It isn’t,” John says, and it’s sharper still. “Sherlock – I had no right. _No right_. You were dying of an overdose, literally dying, and I – I beat you. I lost control. Completely. I… I can’t tell you how sorry I am. Of all the people in the world, I’m meant to be your defender and protector, not – the monster who did that to you. I – need to ask your forgiveness, but I’m – the truth is that I’m so ashamed of myself.” The words cut like glass on their way out, but it’s the unvarnished, honest truth and he needed to say it. 

“Stop,” Sherlock says again, a little louder. “I understood, John. I know why. Maybe you needed something to hit, something to blame. I’m glad it was me and not someone else, that I could bear it for you. We’re not perfect, either of us. And you are that, to me. My defender. My war hero. There is nothing to forgive.” 

John can’t help it. He gets up and goes around the table and falls to his knees beside Sherlock. “But I need to hear you say it,” he says, his voice shredding. It’s all gone to pot, his plan for this evening. This is so important, though, Ella’s talk of misplaced blame aside. He needs to own this one. “Please!” 

His hands are on Sherlock’s thigh and he closes his eyes as Sherlock’s hand comes down on his head and strokes gently through his hair. “Then I forgive you,” he says, and it’s as simple as that. He bends and puts his arms around John’s shoulders, his face pressed into John’s hair and John lets it wash through his frame. He gets his arms around Sherlock’s middle and hugs him fiercely for several long minutes. 

He breaks away after a bit and looks up into Sherlock’s face. “Are you all right?” he asks, awkward, but less so than before. “I never even asked, before…”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock assures him. He gestures with his chin. “Come on, get off the floor. No use being melodramatic about it.” 

He smiles, his eyes crinkling up at the corners, and John smiles despite himself and lets Sherlock help him up. “Sorry,” he says, going back to his side of the table. “I just – I needed to say it.” 

“All right.” Sherlock accepts this. The door bell rings. “I’ll get that,” he says, and disappears down the stairs before John can even object or contest it. He’s back in a moment with their order, and everything turns lighter as John helps him unpack it and they dish things out together. The food smells great and John suddenly thinks that he can’t remember the last time he felt properly hungry and interested in food. He decides to say this out loud. 

“I can’t think of the last time I felt properly hungry,” he says, spooning honey garlic chicken onto his plate. 

“I was just thinking the same thing,” Sherlock says. “Or when I last had a proper, healthy-ish meal.” 

John eyes him and thinks that he looks a bit thin, but decides not to comment on it. “Let’s enjoy this, then.” 

Sherlock smiles, though his eyes are on the egg rolls. “With you here, that’s a given.” He sits before John can respond to this, and lifts his glass. “Cheers,” he says, and John raises his own glass and clinks it to Sherlock’s. 

“Cheers,” he replies, not asking what they’re drinking to. That’s too dangerous, still. 

They chat lightly through dinner. Sherlock asks about Rosie, but doesn’t ask any of the bigger questions, and that’s good because John doesn’t have answers for them yet. They discuss Lestrade and his new dog, who apparently came along on the visit earlier, and they talk about Mrs Hudson’s car. 

After, Sherlock declares himself full and pushes his plate away. John agrees, and they casually close up the boxes containing the leftovers and put them in the fridge. “This is the last of the wine,” Sherlock says, splitting it between their glasses. “Let’s finish it in the sitting room. I’ve lit the fire.” 

John picks up his glass and follows Sherlock, expecting him to go to his chair, but instead he goes to the sofa. The sitting room is unusually clean; Mrs Hudson must have been in here. “Has Mrs Hudson been up to clean?” he asks, trying to mask his awkwardness as he follows Sherlock to the sofa. 

“Yes. She and I cleaned everything yesterday. That was for her shift,” Sherlock says, rolling his eyes slightly. “She could have made me do it all myself. It was a disaster in here.” 

“I remember,” John says, keeping his voice light, sitting down about a foot away. “Well, the two of you did a great job. It looks like nothing ever happened in here.” 

“Would that that were the truth,” Sherlock says wearily. 

John looks at him for a long moment. Sherlock looks tired, half-turned toward him, a hand on his forehead. The moment is suddenly very serious. “We all have our demons,” he says, his throat tight around the words. “Believe me, Sherlock, I know that. Are you all right now? Health-wise, I mean… your kidneys, are they – ”

“Fully functional again, though I have an appointment to check next week,” Sherlock tells him. “I’m not as young as I once was, though. I know I can’t put myself through another round like that.” 

John touches his knee lightly. “You blamed yourself, with my help,” he says starkly. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. You needed someone, too, and I pushed you away. The truth is that we needed each other. It’s my fault that we neither of us had that.” 

Sherlock lifts his eyes to John’s. “I still need you,” he says, very plainly. “I always need you, John. Not just for the cases. Always. I need you.” 

John feels a lump come into his throat. “I was going to try to bring that up tonight,” he says. “You’ve beaten me to it.” 

Sherlock’s eyes search his. “Were you?” he asks, needing John to confirm it, say that he really was going to do that. 

John nods. “The other day, on your birthday… I didn’t mean to tease you about Irene. The fact is that all that was always a cover for my jealousy of her. For what I thought she meant to you.” 

“John – she was never – ” Sherlock is frowning, so John hastens to explain himself. 

“I know that now,” he says quickly. “The fact is that I wanted to be that. To mean – something like that to you. I want to be that person, the one who brings out the best in you, like I said.” 

“You are,” Sherlock says. His eyes have turned dark in the semi-light of the room. “You always have been.” 

“Sherlock – ” John isn’t sure yet whether they’re saying the same thing. He opens his mouth and they speak at the same time. 

“I love you.” 

John’s mouth opens, but Sherlock says it again before he can. 

“I love you, John,” he says, and it’s sober and serious and his eyes are full of it, tinged with a bit of pain. “I never expected – but if you mean that the way I mean it, then it needs to be said. It’s the truth. I love you. It’s always been you.” 

Every time he says it puts another bolt into John’s heart. He feels as though he’s suffocating, somehow. “I do mean it that way,” he says. “But after everything you’ve done for me, and after everything I’ve – I don’t deserve you, Sherlock.” 

“Don’t,” Sherlock says, his voice low and velvety. “Don’t make it about that. It doesn’t matter. I’m told that relationships are rarely perfectly balanced. All that matters is what we want.” 

Startled by hearing these precise words again, John frowns. “Who told you that?” 

“Ella,” Sherlock says. “I was going to tell you tonight. I’ve been… talking to her now and then. Since Mary. I didn’t want you to think I was stalking you or something. She’s been helpful.” 

John thinks of Ella gently urging him to pursue this, of her telling him that Sherlock might be better at talking about this stuff than he thought. He shakes his head. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he says. “I went back to her, you know. I agree: she’s been quite helpful.” 

“John…” Sherlock’s eyes are hooded and he’s leaning forward a little. “I want to hug you again. May I?” 

Warmth rushes into John’s chest. “Oh God, Sherlock. Yes. Yes.” He reaches over and pulls Sherlock into his arms and Sherlock responds instantly, wrapping his own around John’s back and shoulders. John’s cheek is leaning into Sherlock’s this time, their chests pressed together above the tangle of their legs. The bolts in his heart turn to liquid and John closes his eyes, drinking in every moment of this thirstily. “You don’t think it’s too late for us, then?” he asks, his voice coming out in a whisper. “You don’t think it’s too late for this?” 

“No,” Sherlock says, and draws back just far enough to look into John’s eyes. “Not if you don’t.” 

“I don’t want it to be,” John says desperately. 

“Then it isn’t.” Sherlock makes it sound that easy, that simple. 

“Sherlock – ” John surges forward and kisses him, foregoing all thoughts of not deserving Sherlock because he wants this so badly that he could cry. It’s a long, warm press of his lips to Sherlock’s, Sherlock kissing back with equal strength, and John feels his back heaving and shuddering, trying to sob, and after a minute he’s forced to break away, babbling. “Sherlock – I can’t – I don’t – but I want this so much, it’s all I – ”

Sherlock is rocking him, actually rocking him in his arms. “Shh,” he says, a hand on the back of John’s neck again in the exact way he was craving, his head pulled down to Sherlock’s shoulder. “It doesn’t matter now. We’ll get there. As we are. I love you. I love you.” 

“I love _you_ – ”

“Then kiss me again,” Sherlock murmurs, and John does so, fiercely. Sherlock’s lips are opening under his, so John lets himself go, the kiss deepening and expanding and surrounding them both. It’s like drowning, only Sherlock is there with him, is his oxygen and his life raft and the wind in his sails at all once. They kiss and kiss and John feels himself grow hard, every part of himself desiring Sherlock to the fullest. He can’t think of when he last wanted so hard, so badly. 

He’s gasping into Sherlock’s mouth and somehow his legs have got themselves around Sherlock’s waist. He can feel Sherlock’s hardness against his own, and eventually Sherlock opens his eyes and breaks the kiss off. 

“John,” he says, his lips looking rosy and satisfyingly well-kissed, his voice low and sensual. “I feel I should tell you that I don’t, er, I haven’t – ”

John hears himself laugh, a startled blurt of a laugh. “Jesus, Sherlock. I know that. I know. It’s fine. As long as you want this.”

“Oh, I want it,” Sherlock assures him, his tone dark and curling into John’s ears like smoke. 

John thinks that if his ears could have erections, they would. “Jesus,” he breathes. “God. Anything you want from me – anything at all, you can have it, Sherlock. Just name it. Tell me what you want.” 

Sherlock seems to be having difficulty breathing. “I want you,” he says. “I want you in every way there is. I don’t even know what I want. I just know that I want you.” 

John is actively pressing himself to Sherlock, his hands buried in Sherlock’s nicely-styled curls. “Me too,” he pants. “Anything. I just want you. I want to touch you. And I want you to touch me.” 

“Oh God, please,” Sherlock gets out on an exhale. “Anything!” 

Their hands are wild, touching anything they can reach, but their position is limiting that somewhat. “Bedroom?” John asks into Sherlock’s ear, and he feels Sherlock nod fervently in response. They get up and stumble down the corridor to the bedroom. John knows his hard-on is showing plainly, but a glance at Sherlock’s midsection shows the same and he has to swallow down the saliva that gathers in his mouth upon seeing this. 

They get stuck in the doorway to the bedroom when the urge to kiss overwhelms them both again. “John,” Sherlock says after, his breathing ragged, “I mean it. Anything you want – you can have it. Anything.” 

John realises that he’s got Sherlock pushed up against the doorframe, fists clenched in the material of his beautiful shirt, and comes to himself with a start, making his hands relax. “I’m – afraid,” he says starkly. He makes himself look into Sherlock’s eyes. “Now that it comes to it, I’m afraid that if you let me in, I’ll take too much. And I’m afraid that you won’t stop me.” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “There’s no such thing as too much,” he says stubbornly. 

“But there has to be, don’t you see?” John asks, hearing himself almost pleading. “There has to be a limit. Or else I’ll take everything. That’s what I’m afraid of.” 

Sherlock sounds hollow. “All I know how to do is to give everything,” he says. “I thought that was how love worked.” 

John looks at him in astonishment. “My God,” he breathes. “You’re right. You’re completely right. As long as you take all of me, too.” 

“Yes – please, John, that’s all I want – ” Sherlock sounds desperate, and John’s mouth is on his again before he’s even consciously decided to kiss Sherlock again. His hand is on Sherlock through the material of his trousers, rubbing at the growing hardness within, and Sherlock is moaning into his throat. His entire body is trembling, his long fingers clutching at John’s hair and shoulder respectively. 

Encouraged, John unbuttons Sherlock’s trousers and lets them drop to the floor. He strokes Sherlock’s thighs and hips, then pushes his underwear down, too. He helps Sherlock step out of it all, then starts unbuttoning his shirt. Sherlock is panting into his hair. “Is this all right?” John murmurs, bending to put his lips to Sherlock’s clavicle, his throat, his chest. 

“Y-yes,” Sherlock gets out, still trembling. 

“I want you to feel good,” John says into his skin, loving Sherlock harder than he’s ever dared let himself before. “I want to touch you everywhere.” 

“Please,” Sherlock says, his voice gone breathy, edging on frantic. His fingers tighten where they’re gripping John through his clothes. “But – your clothes – I want to see you, please, John – ”

“Oh – of course,” John says. He straightens up and holds Sherlock’s gaze as he unbuttons his shirt from top to bottom. Sherlock watches him hungrily, eyes taking in every bit of newly-revealed skin. His fingers go to the button of John’s jeans, so John pulls his shirt off entirely and lets Sherlock have at his trousers. They get him out of the rest of his kit in seconds, John pulling his socks off, too. They gaze at each other for a moment, bared and revealed fully, then John pulls Sherlock back into his arms, gently now, and lets their bodies press up against each other’s as they kiss. Their cocks are touching, warm and a bit wet, and Sherlock’s arms are wound around him tightly. It’s the most intimate moment of John’s life to date and his heart is swelling and spilling over in his chest. When the kiss breaks off, he moves his mouth to Sherlock’s throat and kisses it in a fever of need to express the emotion boiling out of his heart. “I love you,” he breathes. “God, I love you.” He gets his hand around Sherlock, which makes Sherlock gasp into his hair. “Still okay?” he murmurs, and gets a moan to the affirmative in response. He kisses Sherlock’s skin again and again, rubbing him gently as it throbs in his hand. His mouth trails down Sherlock’s chest and belly until he’s on his knees. He looks up at Sherlock. “May I?” he asks, needing a definite, clear answer before this goes any further. His own cock is aching with need, but all he wants right now is to do this for Sherlock, make him feel better than he knew he could feel. 

Sherlock’s eyes are locked on his. “Yes,” he says, his voice rough and stark. “Anything you want of me, John – it’s yours.” 

“I want to do this for you,” John tells him. “I want to taste you, make you feel good.” 

“Then – please,” Sherlock breathes, his long hands settling on John’s head, cradling it. 

John smiles at him, then takes Sherlock’s cock and brings it to his mouth. It’s extremely hard, the foreskin rolled back to expose the head, shiny with moisture and deeply crimson with need. John puts his mouth on it, and Sherlock jerks as though he’s been electrocuted, a cry releasing from his throat. John smiles around his mouthful and glances up to see Sherlock biting the knuckles of his left hand. John uses his lips and tongue to massage Sherlock’s head, licking his way down to the root of his shaft and rubbing it with his cheek. He uses both hands and his mouth at the same time, stroking wherever his mouth can’t reach, rubbing Sherlock’s thighs and arse and balls and the base of him as he starts to suck in earnest, sliding his mouth over the length of Sherlock. Sherlock is panting, unable to conceal it, his voice getting higher and higher. 

“John – John, I’m – stop, please – ” Sherlock sounds agonised, and John stops immediately. 

“What is it?” he asks, concerned, looking up. “What’s wrong?” 

Sherlock is still covering his eyes with the back of his hand. “It’s just – I don’t want to – not yet – ”

John gets to his feet. “Hey, hey,” he says, pulling at Sherlock’s hand. “It’s okay. It’s fine.” He puts his lips to Sherlock’s for long moment and Sherlock kisses back with what feels a bit like relief. They part, and John says, gently, “Anything you want, remember? Absolutely anything.” 

“I want to get there together, with you,” Sherlock says. “The first time, especially.”

“Of course. Of course. Just show me what you want,” John says, touching his face. 

Sherlock takes his hand and tugs him inside, closing the bedroom door behind them. “Come to the bed,” he says, leading John to it. He pushes back the blankets and pulls John onto him, his hands going directly to John’s arse. 

“Like this?” John asks, getting it. He shifts himself against Sherlock so that their cocks are touching again. 

Sherlock nods. “Just like this,” he says, breathy again, and they begin to move jointly. 

John is already so hard that he thinks he could go off like fireworks with a stiff gust of wind, never mind this: Sherlock’s warm, panting frame writhing against him. John hears himself moaning, and is glad he’s stopped seeing Mary. She has no place in this. His hips are moving automatically, thrusting rhythmically against Sherlock, and Sherlock is moaning in response, his eyelids fluttering, hands clutching John tightly to himself. It’s almost on him – John drops his head to Sherlock’s shoulder and pants hotly against it, rocking against him, thighs pushing against Sherlock’s. It feels so good he could cry – Sherlock is moving against him in exactly the right way, and how the hell does he know exactly how to, when he’s never – but never mind, because – John’s thoughts get hung up as his body thrusts frantically against Sherlock’s, the friction of his cock against Sherlock’s the best thing in the world, and then he’s coming, a long shout tearing from his throat, warm spray jetting out of him uncontrollably, and even as it’s going, he feels Sherlock’s body jerk and freeze against his, and then there’s another gush of wet warmth, mingling with his own, Sherlock’s voice all breath in his ear as his body releases in pulse after pulse of hot come, painting John’s chest with it, his fingers digging into the meat of John’s arse. 

When John comes to himself, he’s panting damply into Sherlock’s neck, his eyes wet with the strength of his orgasm, or maybe he’s actually crying. Check: yes, he is, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Sherlock’s arms are around him, one hand stroking his hand, and John feels accepted and loved unquestionably, unconditionally. For a moment he lets himself sob, unable to control himself, and Sherlock’s arms only tighten, his face buried in John’s hair. John can’t even say why he’s crying. Is it because it took them so damned long to get here? Or is this still his guilt – over Sherlock? Over Mary? Over all of it in one? He doesn’t know, so he just lets it rack through him until it’s passed. Finally, he lifts his head and reaches for a tissue, wiping his face and Sherlock’s neck and shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice still wrecked. “Fuck. I’m so sorry.” 

“Please don’t be,” Sherlock says, his voice low and warm now, and entirely unbothered. “I’m rather emotional, myself.” 

John looks down into his face, and sure enough, Sherlock’s eyes are wet, too. “I didn’t mean to be such a wreck,” he says ruefully. “That’s not how I meant for this to go at all.” 

Sherlock’s left hand strokes down his back, the right still in John’s hair. “It couldn’t possibly matter less. As long as it’s you and I. That’s all that matters. Besides which, what just happened between us hardly needs an apology. That was the best thing I’ve ever experienced.” 

John wants to believe this. “Ever?” 

“In my entire life,” Sherlock vows. “I want to do it again. And again and again after that. If you’re amenable, of course.” 

John laughs, and suddenly the worst is past. “Of course I’m amenable, you tit. I love you.” 

“I love you,” Sherlock counters, and John kisses him for a long, long time. 

*** 

He ends up spending the night there. “I can’t bear the thought of going back to the flat,” he admits, from the comfort of Sherlock’s arms. They’ve cleaned themselves up and are on their sides now, facing each other. He’s got an arm and a leg around Sherlock, too, and it feels amazing. He didn’t know that Sherlock would be one for cuddling, but apparently there’s a lot he still has to learn. 

“Then don’t go back there,” Sherlock says. “Stay here with me.” 

“I think I will, tonight, if you don’t mind,” John says. 

Sherlock hesitates. “You could just – stay.” 

John blinks at him. “What, forever?” 

Sherlock’s shoulder twitches in what might be a shrug. “You did live here for nearly two years. Is it such a wild suggestion?” 

“No,” John says. “Of course not. It’s just… now, with how everything is, and with this – I mean, this is new. Do we really want to put that sort of pressure on it right away?” 

Sherlock thinks about this for a moment. “Well, it’s up to you,” he says. “It seems like an obvious solution to me. You’re worried about me being left on my own. I worry about you on your own. We both get lonely without the other. And we’re rather good at living together, I think. It may be that it doesn’t need to be – complicated.” 

John searches his face. “You may be right,” he says. “I just don’t want to mess it up. I’ve wanted this for so long, you know. The last thing I want to do now is to screw it up.” 

Sherlock studies him awhile longer. “Why don’t we ask Ella?” he suggests. 

John stares at him in astonishment. “You’re brilliant,” he says. “Of course! That makes so much sense.” 

“When is your next appointment?” Sherlock asks. 

“I just saw her today, at lunch,” John says. “So not until Tuesday. I’ve been going twice a week lately.” 

“I have an appointment on Monday afternoon, as it happens,” Sherlock says. “Let’s be clear that we’re just asking her opinion, though. Whatever she says, I want it to be our own decision. If you don’t feel that we should move in together just yet, that’s fine. The other option, of course, is that you can move back in as a flatmate, rather than… whatever this is. Into your old bedroom, I mean. And we can continue this per its own schedule.” 

John considers this. “I suppose that’s a thought,” he agrees. 

Sherlock smiles. 

“What?” John asks. 

“But you don’t like it,” Sherlock says. “You like the thought of being here, with me.” 

John feels his face smiling back in spite of himself. “True,” he says. He leans over and kisses Sherlock’s throat. “I wonder why…” 

Sherlock makes a sound of decided appreciation, which resonates against John’s lips. “Don’t stop that…” 

John doesn’t. 

*** 

So he sleeps with Sherlock. Sleeping with someone who’s never slept with anyone else before is a bit of a novel experience, but they figure it out. John has always been the big spoon with everyone else in his life, but Sherlock, once he’s grasped the notion, seems to strongly prefer being on the outside, so John gives in without any fuss. It feels like the hug the other day, only magnified in the best of ways. He can feel Sherlock all around him, his longer frame curled in behind him, thighs resting against the back of John’s, an arm wrapped firmly around his abdomen, his breath in John’s hair. John finds Sherlock’s fingers on his chest and weaves his own into them. They sleep, John already dreaming of what they might do in the morning. His brain and body already have quite a few ideas. It’s been a long time since there was any sort of regular sex in his life – since the engagement, to be precise. Then there were the six months following the shot, where he was sleeping upstairs at Baker Street again. After that, he’d had a few weeks of sex again after he went back to Mary, but it was never the same and he was never quite in the mood for it. It became a bodily function, nothing more. Once a week or so, sometimes not even that often. Brush his teeth, shave, get an orgasm out, go to sleep. He hasn’t desired like this in ages, nor found anything so fulfilling possibly ever before in his life. 

He drifts off, his brain still full of churning thoughts, but he concentrates on the warmth of Sherlock’s limbs, his presence, of what’s happened between them, at last, and eventually he sleeps. 

Dawn comes and he wakes needing the loo. He gets himself out of Sherlock’s sleep-slackened embrace and stumbles blearily into the loo to relieve himself. He finishes, washes his hands, shuts off the light and goes back to the bed. Without him there, Sherlock has shifted onto his front, the sheets low around his waist, revealing the long expanse of his back. His skin is pale and – John’s mind was about to supply ‘smooth’, but he peers closer and realises that this is not the case. Not anymore. He gets carefully back into bed and leans over, examining Sherlock. To his horror, he sees that the entire length of Sherlock’s back is crisscrossed with scars, long and thin and silvery against his pale skin. Suddenly he understands why Sherlock didn’t want to sleep with his back to him, and sees retroactively how Sherlock managed to keep him from noticing while they were – John shudders and nearly gags. Who did this to Sherlock? 

He touches the scars, very lightly, and Sherlock doesn’t stir. When was the last time he saw Sherlock’s bare back? Obviously there was the rather memorable time at Buckingham Palace, but that was hardly the first and doubtfully the last time he’d seen it. John racks his memory. Did he ever see it after Sherlock came back from Serbia and wherever he was before that? He can’t think of an occasion when he might have. The only times they ever changed in one another’s vicinity would have been at their suit fittings for the wedding, and Sherlock stayed in his dressing room for that. Even in the hospital, both times, he was always on his back. 

John settles onto his side and blinks back tears, his heart in his throat, still touching Sherlock’s back. They did this to him while he was away, then. He was captured. He’d said that much. About Mycroft rescuing him. He hadn’t said that he was tortured. For him, John realises. Because Sherlock was keeping him safe, by pretending to be dead, by running around out there for two years, taking down terrorists and God even knows what else. And they did this to him. 

Sherlock’s breathing shifts as he wakes and John realises too late. “I never meant for you to see,” Sherlock says, still facing away from him. His voice is stiff and quiet. He doesn’t move, though, doesn’t turn to face John. 

“I’m sorry,” John says, his voice clouded over. “God, Sherlock. I’m so sorry. I – you turned in your sleep, and I – ”

Sherlock doesn’t move. “It’s ugly, isn’t it.” His voice is barely audible but the words shatter the air around them. 

“No!” It’s vehement, nearly violent. John bends and puts his lips to five parallel scratch lines and kisses them repeatedly. “These scars – they’re the mark of you having saved me. Yet again. I only wish I had been there to kill the people who did this to you. I should have been there.” 

Sherlock turns over now, his eyes wide and dark in the unlit bedroom. “You couldn’t have been there, practically speaking,” he says. “This wasn’t your fault, John. Don’t let yourself think that. There is nothing you could have done to stop this.” 

“But I still benefited from it,” John says, his throat clamping. “I benefited from your – torture. They tortured you.” 

Sherlock doesn’t deny it. “Is it any worse than what I’ve done to myself since?” he asks softly. 

John can’t deny this. He reaches for Sherlock and Sherlock comes willingly, shifting into his arms and putting his own around John. He holds Sherlock for a long time, wordless with grief over the entire thing. After a little, he pulls back and has a long look at the cut still healing on Sherlock’s brow. He puts his lips to it. “I’m sorry,” he says. 

“You’ve already apologised,” Sherlock says quietly. “And I’ve already forgiven you. Had already forgiven you.” 

“Maybe you shouldn’t.” John’s voice is tight. “I became one of them. One of the people who hurt you.” 

“Maybe it’s my decision to make,” Sherlock counters. He puts a hand on John’s cheek and speaks firmly. “Listen to me, John. You’re _not_ that. There’s a difference between grieving and losing control, and being – that. I know you. I _know_ you. You’re the best man I’ve ever known, demons notwithstanding.”

John listens and tries to accept this, but it’s difficult. “Are there any others?” he asks, the question blunt. “Any other marks from – what I did to you?” 

“No.” He says it too quickly, though, and John doesn’t believe him. 

“Let me see. Please,” John adds, requesting. 

Sherlock smiles, incongruously. “Honestly, John, I was still bruised from the fight with Ajay when that happened. It’s hard to know which marks come from what. Regardless, all of the lacerations and bruises are healing.” 

“I want to see them all, just in case.” John is stubborn. 

Sherlock sighs and turns onto his back. “As you like, then.” 

John reaches back and switches on the lamp on the bedside table and it turns Sherlock’s pale skin golden. He searches over every inch of his skin with his fingertips and kisses every lingering mark, every scabbed-over scratch. He gets Sherlock to turn onto his front and examines his entire back side, and by the time he allows Sherlock to turn over again, Sherlock is sporting the beginnings of an erection. “Oh,” John says, looking at it. This wasn’t at all what he was planning, but he notices that Sherlock’s cheeks are stained with a flush, of either arousal or embarrassment or possibly both. He slides himself up close against Sherlock’s side and touches his mouth with his fingers. “Listen to me,” he says intensely. “I promise you, right here and now, that I will never touch you with intent to hurt again. _Never_.” 

Sherlock looks young and horribly vulnerable in the lamplight, blinking at him. “All right,” he says uncertainly. “I promise you the same. I’ll never willingly hurt you, John.” 

“Sherlock – ” John kisses him then, unable not to. “I still maintain that I don’t deserve you, but God damn it, I promise that I will spend the rest of my life trying to.”

Sherlock nods. “Okay,” he says, in that same uncertain tone. Then he says, “But you’ll still touch me, won’t you?” 

John nods, too. “Yes. Yeah, of course. Do you mean – now?”

Sherlock smiles, not taking his eyes from John’s, and John feels his heart turn to mush all over again. 

He licks his lips. “How would you like me to – ? With my hand, or my mouth, or…?”

“Your hand,” Sherlock says, the flush deepening. “And – kiss me.” 

“Deal,” John says, and puts his mouth to Sherlock’s again. He reaches down and finds Sherlock’s erection bumping into his fingers. He closes his fist around it and strokes firmly, tugging and twisting until Sherlock is panting into his mouth, his legs twitching restlessly against the sheets, fingers clutching at John. He seems to change his mind about just letting John do this for him about halfway through, reaching for John in turn. John groans into the kiss but doesn’t protest. They’re on their sides now, tugging at each other’s cocks, going hard. Sherlock comes first, which is hardly surprising as he had a head start.

When he finishes spurting all over John’s belly, he pants into John’s forehead for several minutes, his hand gone slack on John’s cock. Then he gathers himself and says, “I want to try what you did, before,” and before John can ask for clarification, Sherlock is there between his legs, his breath warm on John’s cock for a split second before the warmth of his mouth closes around him. “Ahhhhh,” John groans, his fingers going instinctively to Sherlock’s hair. “Oh, God, yes! That’s fucking _phenomenal_ – oh God, oh God…” He was already close before, and Sherlock is sucking with unrestrained enthusiasm, his tongue pressing in from beneath and swirling around his leaking slit, and John is in heaven. He tugs at Sherlock’s hair to warn him that he’s close, managing to gasp out, “Sherlock, I’m – going to – ” Sherlock hums something unintelligible in response and John moans at the vibrations and feels his hips thrust upward once, hard, and then he’s coming and coming and coming, right into Sherlock’s mouth, which he hasn’t pulled off, and it’s bloody fantastic. He’s shouting, fingers clenched in Sherlock’s hair, still coming. When it finally stops, he sags back onto the sheets, his back damp with sweat, and Sherlock crawls up and drapes himself bonelessly over him, like a cat. 

“Was that all right?” he asks, his face hidden in John’s neck. 

“That was fucking amazing,” John pants in unfiltered frankness. “Jesus. You’re incredible.” 

“ _You’re_ incredible,” Sherlock returns, and kisses his throat until John’s recovered enough to pull Sherlock’s mouth to his own. They kiss deeply, wetly, their tongues tangled together, and John feels better than he’s felt in far longer than he can remember. 

*** 

They sleep until sometime after eleven after that, and there’s another round then, too, albeit a sleepy one. It’s warm and soft and involves a lot of Sherlock pressing up against him and getting as many of his limbs around John as possible after, which John privately adores. They lie in bed talking about nothing in particular (brunch, mostly) and John asks himself inwardly if Sherlock isn’t right, if they can’t just have this. He could just… stay. Abandon the flat with its darkened rooms and lonely corridors. 

“What about Rosie?” he asks out of the blue, interrupting whatever Sherlock was saying. 

Sherlock pauses, then catches up. “What about her?” he asks, letting go whatever it was that he was talking about. 

Their eyes meet, Sherlock propping himself onto one elbow. “Well – I mean, what am I supposed to do with her?” John asks. “If I move back in…”

Sherlock smiles at this, then says, “What’s the problem? You can bring Rosie with you, obviously.” 

John raises his eyebrows. “What, and we’ll just – raise my daughter together?” Actually, once he says it out loud, it doesn’t sound that farfetched. 

Sherlock is watching him carefully. “We’ll do whatever is needed,” he says, a bit cautiously. “Whatever you want, John. If that’s what you want, then that’s what we’ll do. We have Mrs Hudson here. Molly isn’t far at Bart’s. And that couple from your clinic seem to love having her. Isn’t she with them now, even though it’s the weekend?” 

John feels a twinge of guilt all over again. “She is,” he acknowledges. “They wanted to take her to Devonshire for the weekend, to meet Leila’s parents.” 

“So, that’s a nice bit of support, too,” Sherlock points out. “We don’t have to figure out it out now. All I’m saying is that nothing will make this impossible, John. Not if you want it.” 

“Right now, all I want is you,” John admits. “And I feel terrible for that.” 

“Talk to Ella,” Sherlock advises. “I imagine you’re not the first parent to have recently lost the other parent with a baby in the picture. I’ll help you in whatever way I can. You know I love Rosie.” 

John smiles at him. “Do you?” he says. “I did know. I’ve never heard you say it, though.” 

Sherlock leans over and presses his lips to John’s forehead. “She’s _your_ daughter. Obviously I love her.” 

John reaches for his face and kisses him for a long moment. “I love you,” he says again. 

Sherlock’s eyebrows rise. “Demons and all?” he asks lightly. 

John nods. “Demons and all.” 

*** 

“Stay for the rest of the day, at least,” Sherlock said as they were cooking breakfast together, and John had agreed readily. They’re sitting on the sofa now, side by side on their laptops. Or rather, John is on one of Sherlock’s many laptops. Leila and Dean have sent photos of Rosie sitting on Leila’s mother’s lap. Part of him knows very well that they’d love to just keep her indefinitely. Leila was a longtime patient, in and out of the clinic for a variety of tests until he’d finally diagnosed Crohn’s Disease and later, prescribed a hysterectomy. She’s in good health now, and still comes in regularly for check-ups. She followed him from clinic to clinic during those dark days when Sherlock was gone. She’s a loving, gentle, kind person, and Dean is a wonderful man. The temptation is there, and John doesn’t know whether it’s a demon whispering in his ear that they’d make far better parents than he ever would. They’re obviously willing to take care of Rosie and keep him in the loop at the same time. Maybe just for a little while, until he feels up to the task of single parenting. Only it wouldn’t be single, either. Sherlock has said he’ll be there. 

He turns his head away from the facebook screen and looks at Sherlock, who is rapidly typing a response to someone’s comment on his blog. He feels it, though. “Hmm? What?” 

He hasn’t even tuned John out, then. “Having a baby here… it wouldn’t really fit, would it?” 

“What do you mean, ‘fit’?” Sherlock responds, still typing. “If you have a baby, then you make it fit. That’s my understanding of it.” 

John hesitates and debates telling him about Leila and Dean. He fidgets and doesn’t say it. 

“What aren’t you saying?” Sherlock stops typing and looks at him. 

John shakes his head. “I don’t know yet. I’m still – yeah. I don’t know. I’ll tell you when I have a better idea.” 

Sherlock leans over and kisses him, unexpectedly. “All right,” he says, and goes on typing his comment, or perhaps it’s a new one now. 

Later, Sherlock gets up and goes into the kitchen, moving about it rapidly, opening the fridge and running the cold tap. A few minutes later, John smells butter and garlic sizzling and gets up to go and investigate. Sherlock is just dropping two handfuls of prawns into a pan. “Yum,” John says, sniffing appreciatively. “What should I do?” 

Sherlock glances at him, then doesn’t tell him not to help. “You could chop that broccoli, if you like,” he says, putting a lid on a pot of steaming water. 

John gets a cutting board and sets about dealing with the broccoli, watching Sherlock cut the stems off a basket of crimini mushrooms, rubbing them clean with a damp flannel and tossing them into the pan. John adds his broccoli and Sherlock hands him a red pepper, kissing him as he does so. It ends a little too soon and John finds himself strongly tempted to throw the pepper down and pull Sherlock properly into his arms. He clears his throat and restrains himself, though. 

“I haven’t cooked properly in ages,” Sherlock admits, adding a fistful of linguine to the pot. “Apart from this morning, I mean.”

“Mrs Hudson says the kitchen wasn’t exactly useable,” John says dryly. 

“Not for cooking,” Sherlock agrees. “Won’t be doing that again.” He catches John’s eye. “Promise.” 

John grips his arm for a moment; suddenly the air in the kitchen seems to have evaporated. “You’d better bloody well mean that,” he says, with difficulty, half bent over. 

Sherlock catches him, pulls him into his chest. “I do,” he vows, his voice low but very sure. “We were at our perigee. It won’t happen again. We won’t let it.” 

John puts his arms around Sherlock’s back and holds him as tightly as he can. “You were suicidal,” he says, his voice breaking on the final word. “Would you admit that?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock doesn’t try to deny it. He puts his lips in John’s hair. “And so were you, I think. On the edge, certainly.” 

John thinks of those nights when he drank himself into the blackness and nods in Sherlock’s arms. “Yeah.” Even Ella hasn’t been able to get him to say this aloud. 

Sherlock doesn’t say anything just yet, but his hands stroke over John’s back and through his hair. 

“Are we burning the shrimp?” John asks at last, not wanting to let go, but not wanting to ruin dinner, either. 

“I turned the heat down. It should be fine,” Sherlock says, not moving. 

“Thank God.” 

“Quite.” Sherlock holds him even more tightly. “We’re better together, aren’t we?” he asks after awhile. “I know very well that I need you, at least.” 

“No, I need you, too.” Letting this admission out feels strangely good. It’s as though all of his walls are down, but it’s okay because so are Sherlock’s. This is them at their very rawest, their most vulnerable, most exposed, and they still love each other. “I’ve never felt so laid bare before,” John says into Sherlock’s jaw. “It’s almost frightening.” 

“I feel the same way,” Sherlock tells him, resettling his cheek against John’s head. “I think no less of you for being human, you know.” 

John pulls back just enough to look into Sherlock’s eyes at this. “I think I almost think more of you for it,” he replies, and Sherlock ducks his head to kiss him for a long, slow, deeply passionate moment. 

After a little, they loosen their grips on one another and Sherlock turns to the stove, tossing the contents of the pan and checking on the pasta. “Just as I thought: it’s all ready. I’ll just make the cream sauce if you’ll drain the linguine.” 

“Right. Sure.” John gets out the big colander and puts it into the sink, then goes for the pot and carefully drains the pasta. He gives it a good shake, then looks over to see Sherlock stirring parmesan into the cream mixture. He adds a drop of brandy and a handful of spring onions that he chopped earlier and set aside, then nods at John. John adds the linguine and goes to set the table as Sherlock tosses it all together. “What are we drinking?” he asks. 

“Mrs Hudson brought up a bottle of sparkling cider she got at some fair or something, yesterday afternoon,” Sherlock says. “It’s non-alcoholic, organic, from some local farm or some such thing. We could give that a try, if you like?” 

John hears the carefully neutral tone of his voice, the casual mention of the non-alcoholic nature of the drink thrown in there with just the right levity, and smiles to himself. Sherlock is trying so damned hard. “That sounds delicious,” he says. “I love a good cider.” He goes to the fridge to look for it and finds it in the door. He’s put out the low, wide bowls Sherlock likes to use for pasta, but laughs when he sees Sherlock setting out champagne flutes for the cider. He loves these little quirks of Sherlock’s humour and feels a throb of how much he missed him retroactively, if such a thing can be done. He did and does need Sherlock. They are better together, demons notwithstanding. 

They sit down facing each other and Sherlock unabashedly reaches for his hand across the table and John lets him have it, so profoundly moved by the simple gesture that for a moment he’s afraid to even try to speak. He thinks of telling Ella that he wanted Sherlock to touch him, and specified sexually, but he barely even knew how much more it was. He wants this, so badly. All of it. He wants to let himself enjoy the fall – he’s already fallen, but apparently there are new depths of love to tumble headlong into, and he wants to let himself go and do it. Love without boundary or restraint. Love with all of himself, give all of himself, the way Sherlock has, over and over again. He wants to be the last shield between Sherlock and any harm, wants to pour his whole heart into this, and never leave him again. 

*** 

He ends up staying that night, too. Neither of them said anything about it; it just progressed that way. John singularly failed to bring up the subject of leaving, and Sherlock failed to remind him. The news is on and neither of them is watching it. They’re kissing on the sofa, John half in Sherlock’s lap, tongues intertwining messily, hot breath and saliva passing between them. When Sherlock starts tugging at his shirt, the shirt he wore here yesterday, John makes a sound of agreement and helps him get it off him. They get Sherlock out of his dressing gown and shirt, too, and then Sherlock pushes him gently onto his back. John pulls him down with him, and for a moment Sherlock allows it, their mouths finding each other’s again, but then he slips lower, his hand cupping John in his jeans and rubbing. 

“I want to do this again, if I may,” he says, his voice about two octaves lower than normal and John’s libido responds with a body-wide thrill. 

“Oh God, please,” he says, coming over breathy at the very thought of it, of having Sherlock’s gorgeous mouth on his cock again. He can’t even pretend to feign polite, well-sure-if-you-really-want-to’s here. He’s _dying_ for this. 

Sherlock’s smile turns predatory, and he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he kisses John’s belly and swiftly unbuttons his jeans, then unzips them and slips his hand inside. He strokes John’s hardness until it’s stiffer than a flagpole, then eases his jeans and underwear off entirely, tossing them to the floor. Then he settles himself between John’s thighs and has a good, long look at his cock. 

It’s almost torturous, having Sherlock just _look_ at it like that. “Are you trying to look me into coming?” John manages to get out after a moment. “If anyone could do it, I think you could, but – ”

“I just wanted to see if my wildest imaginings had any basis in reality,” Sherlock tells him smoothly. “There wasn’t time last night. Suffice it to say that I’m far from disappointed. Quite the opposite, in fact.” Without further delay, he drops his head into John’s lap and proceeds to suck, causing John to moan so loudly the neighbours probably heard. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter one _bit_. Sherlock takes no notice of his writhing, thrusting pelvis, but matches his rhythm and plunges his mouth down over John every time John pushes up, and it’s complete bliss. 

John can hear himself, hear the wanton, unfiltered noises he’s making, and can’t think when he was last so free about sex. He always tried to keep it ‘nice’ for the woman he was with, not wanting it to be all grunting and sweat, but Sherlock seems to be feeding on every sound he makes, responding with his own, hummed directly into John’s flesh. He can’t seem to keep himself quiet, anyway, so he stops trying. Sherlock’s tongue is as strong as his lips, seeming to know instinctively exactly when to rub and when to be gentle, cupping him like wet velvet, then tracing the head of his cock in liquid-silver shocks of pleasure. “Sher – I’m going to – ” John pants, tugging at his hair, and Sherlock ignores him again, instead taking him in so deep that John’s head is caught in the tightness of his throat, Sherlock’s nose pressed into the skin of his lower abdomen, and the squeeze of it sends John right over the edge, gasping as his body erupts forcefully down Sherlock’s throat. 

When the stars clear from his vision, he becomes aware that Sherlock is rubbing at himself through his trousers, not trying to hide it. His face is flushed, eyes flooded with arousal, and John’s entire body gives a throb in sympathetic arousal with him. “This time, let me finish,” he says, sitting up and putting his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and kissing his neck. “Get those trousers off you.” 

Sherlock complies hastily and lies back, his eyes on John’s, trusting and somehow very young. John fits himself between Sherlock’s long legs and licks a long stripe from the base of Sherlock’s cock to the head, generous with his tongue and lips. Sherlock moans, his hips jutting upward in reflex, and John makes an encouraging sound around his mouthful of cock. He licks and kisses and tugs at Sherlock’s balls and then, when Sherlock starts making desperate sounds, takes him inside again and starts in properly, mouth working between his legs. He touches as much of Sherlock as he can reach, caressing and stroking, his right hand busy along the shaft of Sherlock’s length. He feels the hard quiver that jerks through Sherlock’s frame, hears the rising of his voice, and goes harder. Sherlock thrusts upward and John gets his hands beneath him to grip his glorious arse and Sherlock cries out and comes, his cock spurting twice, three times into John’s mouth. He manages to swallow it, wanting to, then goes on sucking, persuading out another pulse or two, and then Sherlock goes limp, though his cock is still twitching out a few last drops. John lets himself settle right there in the open vee of Sherlock’s legs, his mouth centimetres from Sherlock’s spent cock. 

They don’t talk about relocating to the bedroom; it just happens after awhile. They brush their teeth and then Sherlock makes a questioning sound and heads into the bedroom, John obviously meant to follow him. He does. He decides not to question it. This is what he wants, and tonight, at least, he’s going to let himself have it. They get into bed and curl themselves around each other under the blankets. John can barely believe that it’s only been a week since absolutely everything was complete and utter shit, and now this is happening. 

They don’t talk. Perhaps Sherlock is experiencing the same sensation of disbelief and doesn’t want to risk spoiling the mood, or breaking this fragile, tender, new thing between them. They lie in each other’s arms and kiss and touch and let the silence curl in tightly around and between them, binding them together. After awhile, they sleep. 

*** 

It’s Sunday afternoon when Mycroft calls. Sherlock makes a face at his phone but answers it, then spends the majority of the call listening rather than speaking. Eventually he says, “I see. Yes. We’ll be there.” He ends the call, then sits with the phone resting against his thigh for a minute or two before speaking, as though gathering his thoughts. 

John is there beside him on the sofa, seemingly not having managed to go back to the flat just yet. The temptation to stay is phenomenally strong. Perhaps he could actually just do that. Just stay. Let himself have this incredibly wonderful thing that’s finally managed to happen between them. He’s in love and he wants this for himself, and for Sherlock, too. Why isolate themselves in loneliness, when they could have this – the life they had before, only better? “What is it?” he asks, prompting Sherlock. “What did he want?” 

“There’s a case,” Sherlock says slowly. “It involves all of us. Mycroft wants to you to be the bait.” 

John thinks for a microsecond of Sherlock having set himself as Culverton Smith’s bait and nearly dying for it. Surely it’s his turn. “I’ll do it,” he says at once. “What is it?” 

“It’s… your therapist,” Sherlock says. “The new one.” He turns his head to look at John. “It seems she’s not who we thought. There’s more, much more, apparently, but Mycroft won’t tell me what it is. It’s big, that’s all I know. And he said that it’s personal. I’ve never heard him say that about any other case before.” 

“Personal,” John repeats. “What do you think it is?” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “I have no idea. He’s got it all planned out, though. He wants to do it tomorrow afternoon. You’re to wear a bullet vest. I’ve got several in the closet; we’ll find one that you can hide under your clothes. I’ll be there with you, but out of sight, and apparently Mycroft is bringing the entire cavalry. I don’t know what this is about, but it’s big. Are you sure you’re willing to do this? You don’t have to.” 

“I want to,” John says firmly. “Let me do this. It’s my turn.” 

Sherlock studies him for a moment, then nods, and leans over to kiss him for a long time. “I’ll be there with you,” he vows. “I’ll never leave you again, John. I promise.” 

John smiles at him, his heart trying its best to crack over this. “Er, about that,” he says. “I think I’ll take you up on that offer and… stay, if I might. I’d just as soon never leave you again, either, as it happens.” 

Sherlock inhales sharply. “Are you certain?” he asks, searching John’s eyes. 

John looks deeply into Sherlock’s, and smiles. “Yeah,” he says, and knows that he means it with his entire being. No more sitting in the dark and letting the demons surround either of them. They deserve this, damn it. “I’m sure. I’m all yours.”

Sherlock puts his arms around John and holds him so tightly John can barely breathe, but that’s fine, because who needs to breathe when there’s _this_. He hears a faint echo of Sherlock’s voice from years and years ago: _Breathing’s boring_. “My life and everything it stands for is yours,” Sherlock tells him in return, his voice choked, and John can’t even speak. 

They’ll work out the details some other time. Not that Rosie is just a ‘detail’, but right now, right here, this is what matters the most. At last, John echoes silently. 

*

**Author's Note:**

> Credit for the title goes to Imagine Dragons, for their song _Demons_.


End file.
